XXIV
ASPIRATIONS
Light of great swords, banners all blazoned gold,
Bright lists of danger where with trumpets pass
Riders like those for whom bride-bells are bold
To beautiful desperate conflict, Michaelmas
Of golden heroes, how my sad soul saith
Your praise! Nor does to you her love deny,
Solemn strange Cups that carry dreamy death
To quench those fevers when they flame too high.
But now the Victories have broken wings;
The spirit of Rapture from the day of deeds
Is banished, and must spend on sorcerous strings
Her heart that perishes of splendid needs.—
Saints, lovers, high crusaders, give me too
Some simple and impassioned thing to do.
XXV
THE ANAESTHETIC
Like a white moth caught heavily, heavily,
In the honeyed heart of some white drowsy flower,
I lay behind the leaves of apathy,
Where not the reddest pang has any power.
Then, like one drowning, I rose and lapsed again
On dim sweet tides of the great anodyne.
Why must they hale me back to drink the pain
That seethes in consciousness, an evil wine?
I love the closing trances, howsoever
Their seals be broken: they are wise and kind.
If death can give such fumes of poppy, never
Shall I revile him. Oh! uncertain mind!
Hast thou an equal pleasure in the proud
Flame-builded pillar, and the pillar of cloud?
XXVI